


The Adventure Of The French Letters (1891)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [124]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Bombs, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Prophecy, Secrets, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 14:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A Gallic distraction as the war with Professor Moriarty approaches its fateful conclusion, and John receives a warning.





	The Adventure Of The French Letters (1891)

**Author's Note:**

> Mentioned elsewhere as 'a service performed for the French government'. It was - sort of.

Christmas that year was a sombre affair, what with my having saved the life of one of the worst excuses for humanity (for which I felt as if my skills had been soiled in some way), and then the attempt on my life by the murderous Mr. Jonathan Clay. I could not shake the growing feeling – the growing sense of dread – that despite our successes against him, this business with Professor James Moriarty was going to end very badly. 

For Christmas, I bought Sherlock a book on bees that I knew he had had his eye on. His present to me was far superior, a set of writing-pens that were 'ergonomically designed' to be easier to hold for long periods of time. I was initially skeptical, but as usual he was right, and the days of my aching hands when my Muse was being more demanding than was the norm were gone forever. 

I have dated our next case together across the New Year period as it was brought to our attention by a New Year's Eve visit from a surprise governmental visitor – not the perennial plague of my existence, Mr. Bacchus Holmes but his and Sherlock's much more welcome brother, Lucius. My friend had sought the lounge-lizard's assistance over the Clay business and had been rebuffed, and had subsequently sent round that the latter was not welcome at Baker Street unless he improved his attitude. Sherlock may also have 'accidentally' passed on certain of the lounge-lizard's more questionable actions to their mother who... well, she had descended on the lounge-lizard's apartment, and he was fortunate that it was only his clothes that she had shredded!

Our welcome guest folded himself into the fireside chair.

“Now that the infernal Professor Moriarty is temporarily out of commission”, he said, “or at least reduced in his scope of activities, I wondered if you might look into a small matter for a client of mine?”

“Who is your client?” Sherlock asked.

“The French government”, our visitor said with a sigh. “They are in a mess. Again.”

I thought back to the case of the assassin Huret earlier in the year, who had met a fitting end at the hands of the man whose parents he had killed.

“I suppose that this is further fall-out from the Boulanger Affair?” Sherlock asked, mirroring my thoughts as usual. His brother nodded.

“You may recall that General Boulanger lost his chance because of his infatuation with his mistress”, our visitor said. “Well, it seems that he may be about to have his revenge. He is now living in Jersey, and the French government has just found that he managed to obtain certain, shall we say, incriminating documents about several leading politicians, and that he is prepared to sell to whoever bids the highest.”

“And I suppose our dear friends in Berlin would love to obtain such information”, Sherlock said dryly. “What sort of incriminating information, pray?”

“We do not know”, Mr. Lucius Holmes said.

No-one could do pointed silences like my friend. His brother visibly wilted under that azure stare.

“That is a pity”, Sherlock said eventually, pressing his long fingers together and looking down into his lap. “I do not take important cases without knowing certain salient facts beforehand. But I shall be generous enough to wish you good luck in your endeavours, dear brother.”

His brother glared at him, and Sherlock stared back. I silently began to count, wondering how far I would get. I reached eight.

“All right”, Mr. Lucius Holmes sighed. “It's a sorry tale. There are five ministers implicated; one for sodomy, one for having three wives in different parts of the capital, two for fraud and one for running a brothel.”

“Male or female?” I asked, writing furiously. If looks could have killed, I would not have reached the next full-stop.

“Male!” our visitor almost barked. “Sherlock? Will you take the case or not?”

“Do you require us to go to France?” my friend asked. “Or Jersey?”

“No”, his brother said. “The maid of the man's mistress is coming to London with the information, or copies of it, and is presumably planning to hawk them round the major embassies to see what she can get for them. An American woman, from what I understand. Her name is Mrs. Missouri Moseley.”

+~+~+

“I do not see how you can succeed in this case”, I said pointedly, once his brother had left. “Obviously the maid's mistress or her lover have the original documents, and unless the British or French governments empower you to bid on one or other of their behalves, you cannot do much.”

“Luke gave me a figure, saying that I could bid up to that amount to obtain the documents”, Sherlock admitted. “For the British, it would be important leverage.”

“Leverage?” I asked. “Why? I thought they were our allies?”

“Today's allies can become tomorrow's enemies”, Sherlock said, a little sententiously, I thought. “In recent years the French have established themselves in both east and central Africa, and there is every prospect that they may seek to unite those lands. With the British pushing north from the Cape and south into Sudan, there may be conflict somewhere along the upper Nile before the decade is out. By buying and then returning the documents, our government would be demonstrating its good faith.”

How noble, I thought.

“However, there is the chance that, purely for the sake of safety, they might make copies!” Sherlock added with a chuckle.

Not that noble, then. 

“I am more concerned for both the maid and her employers”, he said, frowning. “As we both know, government's are dangerous creatures, and when cornered like this, they may lash out unexpectedly.”

His words were, as so often, to prove strangely prescient.

+~+~+

There was a small but surprising event the following day, when Sherlock received a belated letter of apology from his brother Bacchus. I privately thought that it was wrong of my friend to always forgive the lounge-lizard for his long list of failings so readily, but apparently this time the forgiveness was in short supply, because he refused to re-admit him to the house at all. When I looked questioningly at him, he said that his brother's first communication had implied a slur on my own abilities for treating the injured Professor Moriarty, and that he had shredded the offending telegram and returned it. He could be scary when roused, and I silently loved him for standing up for me like that. 

Three days after this, Sherlock received a telegram from his brother Lucius.

“He states that Mrs. Moseley was welcomed at the Russian Embassy yesterday”, he said. “Officially because she claims to have an ancestor in Russian America, or Alaska as it has become. She also claims to be a distant cousin of President Harrison.”

“According to Mr. Darwin, we are all relatives of the current American president, if one goes back enough millennia”, I observed. “But it is a passable subterfuge, even if it fools nobody.”

We had a quiet breakfast, but it was interrupted at the finish by the unexpected arrival of Mr. Lucius Holmes, who looked totally out of sorts. Clearly something calamitous had happened.

“Mrs. Moseley's room at _“La Parisienne”_ was turned over yesterday evening!” he said exasperatedly.

I confess that I was more than a little surprised. That particular hotel was one of the most exclusive in London, renowned for respecting the privacy of its guests and, in one famous case, actually shooting at a newspaper journalist who had been trying to get at one guest (unfortunately they had missed). Not that I had not been tempted to take similar actions against some members of the British press myself, except perhaps for the wonderful journalists at the “Times” (excellent book reviews, by the way).

“Did she not place the papers in the hotel safe?” Sherlock asked.

“I do not know what happened”, his brother admitted, “but she told the constable who interviewed her in her room an hour ago that the papers were safe. Presumably she secreted them somewhere that the thief did not find them. Perhaps she even slept with them! But that is not all. Guess what happened in the small hours of this morning?”

Sherlock sighed in a put-upon manner. His brother made what a visible effort not to roll his eyes.

“Oh yes, the great detective does not 'guess'”, he sighed. “Well, let me tell you. The home of General Boulanger and his mistress was blown to kingdom come!”

“Was anyone killed?” I asked anxiously. He shook his head.

“Fortunately they were attending a ball, and whoever did it had the 'kindness', if that is the right word, to set off a smaller explosion outside first that caused the three servants to come out of the house. All three were injured, but none seriously. So this means almost certainly that the only actual documents pertaining to the scandals are now those in the possession of Mrs. Missouri Moseley.”

“It rather looks as if the French government may have misled you somewhat”, Sherlock said dryly. “Clearly they, or their confederates, are determined to eliminate this threat, one way or another. The physical proof is vital, especially with the General's standing as low as it is just now. How is this Mrs. Moseley?”

“We have put a police guard outside her room, and she herself has gone out for a walk”, his brother said. “A constable is accompanying her. I have to get back to Whitehall and monitor the situation, but I thought that I had better come here first.”

Sherlock nodded and his brother stood up and left.

+~+~+

My friend rang for a maid once his brother was gone, and dispatched a hastily-written telegram. I wondered why he had not walked to the post office himself to send it – there was one just across and a little way down the road – but I assumed that he had to have had his reasons.

Less than half an hour later we had another visitor. It was one of those mornings.

“Mrs. Missouri Moseley”, Mrs. Harvelle announced, and withdrew.

The lady who entered was dark-skinned and sharp-looking, about forty years of age and dressed in possibly every colour under the sun. If she had been aiming for inconspicuous, she had missed it by several hundred miles. I also sensed very quickly that very little would get past her. She nodded to us and took the seat by the fire, placing her large handbag on her lap.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, she said in a melodious American voice. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you for coming, madam”, Sherlock smiled. “I believe that I may be of service to you in this, your hour of need.”

She looked at him thoughtfully for some time before speaking.

“I do need your help, Mr. Holmes”, she said plainly, “and I know that you and your doctor friend can be trusted. The law is useless to me – except for that nice young policeman who is waiting for me outside, of course - because they would want to _know_ things. I can tell you the straight honest truth, and as you said in your message, you can advise me.”

“I will certainly do my best”, he said. “Pray continue.”

“My mistress' house was destroyed last night, and I can only thank a merciful God in Heaven that she and the man that she loves were not inside it”, she said fervently. “Gentlemen, the documents in that house were the originals, and no copies were made. All I possess is a brief summary sheet of the facts of each allegation, which would never stand up in court.”

But it might still do immeasurable damage in the court of public opinion, I thought. Sherlock pressed his long fingers together.

“How did you keep that sheet safe last night?” he asked.

“My family has always been gifted with what is known as The Sight”, she said. “There are certain events in the future that I can see, and it is both a blessing and a curse.”

“How could that be a curse?” I wondered.

She turned to me. There was the briefest of pauses before she spoke, which unnerved me for some reason.

“It works as and when it chooses, doctor”, she said. “When my late husband was shot in a saloon one day, I received the knowledge of what would happen too late to reach him in time. Other times I see...... things many months, and sometimes years, ahead.”

I had the uneasy feeling that she was alluding to something important, though I had no idea as to what.

“Is it not the case that acting on such premonitions risks your losing the ability?” Sherlock asked.

“My late mother once told me that, provided I did so solely to preserve my own safety, I would keep it”, she said. “Use it successfully for a close family member or a stranger, and I would lose it forever. I have always felt, however, that one day something would happen which would make that a price that I would be prepared to pay. I had thought that it would be for poor Bill, but as I said, he died half an hour before I could reach him.”

“And it does not need the Sight to foresee that once someone realizes that they have no documents, then they may take a more deadly revenge on your master and mistress”, Sherlock said. “Even on your good self, if they believe you too to be a threat. May I ask what your plans are after this trip to our city, madam?”

“I plan to return to the United States, and move to live near to my daughter, Clarabelle”, she said. “She has a house in the territories that they are settling, beyond the river that I was named for.”

Sherlock eyed the lady's handbag thoughtfully.

“When you go”, he said, “leave that behind. And when you get back to your hotel, you may care to ask them for an evening edition of the “Times”. I think that you may find it quite interesting. You may call and collect your bag at ten o'clock tomorrow morning.”

She looked at him curiously, but placed her bag on the floor, bade us farewell, and left.

+~+~+

“Is it safe for her to be out there?” I asked anxiously. “Even with a police guard?”

“I am almost certain that she will have been followed from the hotel, most probably by the agents of more than one foreign country”, Sherlock said with a smile. “Indeed, they have quite probably been falling over each other in the process! They will all note that she left her bag here, and will presume that she left the documents in it.”

“Will they not try to raid here tonight?” I asked worriedly.

Sherlock chuckled, and pulled up a notepad on which he began to write. I waited for him to finish, whereon he folded the paper and handed it to me.

“I will stay and guard this highly politically-sensitive empty handbag”, he smiled, “and you will go to the offices of the “Times” and post this for the evening edition. You will then call in at the offices of Martinson & Brackendale, and spend ten minutes inside the building, before returning here.”

I stared at him expectantly, but apparently he was not inclined to elucidate. Rather grumpily, I left on my errands. And it remained a mystery, until I got to the newspaper offices, and they read to me what Sherlock had written.

Damn, but the man really was a genius!

+~+~+

At ten o'clock sharp the following morning Mrs. Moseley returned to Baker Street, her policeman no longer in tow. She had a broad smile on her face, in contrast with her anxiety the day before.

“I _knew_ that I could trust you!” she smiled. “A most brilliant move, sir.”

Sherlock's newspaper item had been a statement informing all who needed to know that he, acting on behalf of the Her Majesty's Government, had purchased the sole rights to the Boulanger documents. Furthermore, as Mrs. Moseley was now a client, Sherlock had taken the precaution of sending copies of the files to ten different lawyers around the United Kingdom, with instructions that if anyone took action against the maid, her family or her employers, then they were to immediately supply all the details to various national and international newspapers. I understood the stop at the lawyers' office as well, now.

“Even when the politicians in those files fall from power”, Sherlock said, “and France being what she has been of late, that is likely sooner rather than later, their successors will not want to risk tarnishing the French government's reputation by targeting you or your employers.”

“Thank you”, she beamed, picking up her handbag. “You have saved not only my life, but quite certainly those of the people I both love and work for.”

“It has been a pleasure”, Sherlock smiled. She turned to me.

“Doctor, would you please walk me downstairs?”

I was a little surprised, but I agreed and escorted her out of the door. Outside, I called a cab for her, and one quickly rolled up. I helped her in, and handed her her handbag. But she did not call out her destination at once.

“Doctor”, she said carefully, “remember how I said that a time would come when I had to risk losing my abilities for a greater good?”

“Yes”, I said uncertainly.

“Two things”, she said quietly. “Firstly, I left a small something for you upstairs. And second.....”

Her dark eyes looked troubled.

“Secondly, remember. No matter what things may appear to be, no matter how dark death's vale looks when you are traversing it, one thing is as sure as the sun rising in the east. That man up there _loves_ you, even if he is holding back because of the trials that still lie ahead of you both. He will _never_ leave you!”

I stepped back in shock.

“Driver, Paddington Station!” she commanded loudly.

I was stood here for some time with my mouth open as her cab disappeared down Baker Street. How strange.

+~+~+

“I wonder what she left us?” I said to Sherlock, as I looked around the recently-vacated chair. It probably said something (and something unflattering) about my limited detective skills that I looked for some time before thinking to feel down the side of the seat, from whence I extracted a small, battered New Testament. One of those spine-attached silk bookmarks had been placed just after the start, and I opened the book at the marked page.

“She has underlined a short passage in Matthew”, I said. “Chapter ten, verse twenty-one, the first half. 'And the brother shall deliver up the brother unto death'.”

I wished a moment too late that I had continued to stare in puzzlement at the Good Book, but instead I chanced to look across at my friend. Only for a second, but the look on his face was unmistakable. 

Guilt.

+~+~+

On the following morning's tide, just after nine o'clock in the morning, Mrs. Missouri Moseley left these shores on board the liner “Teutonic”. Just under one hour later, a pawnbroker called Edward Fitzroy was shot dead in his shop in the East End. That shooting began a chain of events which would end in myself and Sherlock following Mrs. Moseley across the Great Water, and in my losing the best friend that I had in the whole wide world.

+~+~+

Next, an unlikely saviour enters the field of battle.....

**Author's Note:**

> The Channel Islands are a set of small islands (Jersey is the largest at 45 square miles) just off the Normandy coast. They are a British possession but not part of the United Kingdom, having their own laws for most things. For my American readers, I might also mention that in 1664 the restored King Charles II granted a large swathe of his American possessions to his brother, the future King James II, who gave part of his new lands to Sir George Carteret in lieu of a debt. As the latter's ancestral home was on Jersey, this province became New Jersey.


End file.
